


Fallin' For You

by dorlgirl



Series: December Drabbles [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Frottage, M/M, No Aftercare, Painplay, consensual but not safe and sane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorlgirl/pseuds/dorlgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hates the games they play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallin' For You

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [Fallin' For You](http://youtu.be/8lWrnvRECsQ) by Dierks Bentley.

Derek would give anything to change the way this has ended up. Every day he wonders if things might have turned out better if he had just stayed in Beacon Hills after Jennifer and Deucalion had been neutralized. Yes, Cora had wanted to leave - it hadn’t been her home for longer than she could remember. But she hadn’t forced Derek to go with her. She keeps telling him he couldn’t have known what would happen and, even if he had stayed, that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference; that Stiles knew what he was doing and what the consequences of his actions were. It took all of Derek’s admittedly limited self-control to not snap at her purely logical reasoning. He kept reminding himself that she wasn’t here, she couldn’t see what he saw every single day. Even Scott didn’t know how deeply Stiles had been broken. Only Derek bore witness to the extent the darkness had taken over Stiles. Derek is the only person Stiles felt safe enough entrusting his rage and vulnerability to.

He hates the games they play, the fights and sarcasm and the push-pull of hard won and slowly built trust that is inseparable from the desire and the rage that fills the spaces between them. Derek wishes it wasn’t like this, wishes that they could be friends, could talk, or even just fuck each other without dragging pain into it.

A few months ago, they were almost there. Working and fighting together through so many goddamn battles had drawn them closer. Stiles taking responsibility for Cora that night at the hospital, telling Derek to go, to fix things, to not worry, that he would keep her safe and Derek truly thought they had finally turned that corner. He imagined the possibilities for the two of them after Jennifer was dealt with and the remaining members of the Alpha pack were dispatched. Maybe they’d curl up together quiet in his loft, discuss everything that had happened and everything they’d been ignoring between them for the past year. 

He should have known better. Stiles’ sacrifice to the Nemeton had changed everything. The darkness in his heart had twisted their growing friendship and warped everything Derek had dreamed of. At first it was small things: Stiles’ temper was a bit shorter, his sarcasm more biting, his tongue a bit sharper. Derek tried to understand (“You couldn’t, even if you actually cared”), tried to reason (“What, you think you’re better than me, that you have the right to tell me what to do?”), tried to ignore Stiles (“So now I’m not good enough for you? Now that I’m dirty, tainted, infected, you can’t even look at me?”). 

In the end, all Derek can do is accept every scream, every slap, every broken sob. Stiles may not have any physical pain Derek could take from him, but he could take on Stiles’ emotional torment, try to relieve that burden, even if only for a few minutes. It was the only thing he could do. And with every curse, every orgasm, every dirty, shameful fuck in a darkened corner, Derek died a little more. But it was worth it. If it could help Stiles, just a little, he would open his wrists with a wolfsbane-laced blade and bleed his last drop. Everything he had, everything he was and could ever be, belonged to Stiles. Even if Stiles didn’t want his love, his heart, or his soul, Derek lived for Stiles now.

So here they are. Derek takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment to gather his resolve and seal away the raw edges of his heart. Time to perform.

***

Stiles gasps when his head collides with wood paneling, pants as his arms are forced above his head, wrists crossed and trapped against the wall by one of Derek’s hands. He snarls as best he can and Derek can feel Stiles’ anger burning a little brighter, hear him growling at the mocking smile Derek gives him in return. A hiss escapes through Stiles' teeth and he winces as the bones in his wrists grind together when Derek leans harder on them. Stiles opens his mouth to say something but the words are bitten off by a moan when Derek’s thigh eases up between his legs. He nearly moans at the heat radiating from the body under him, the scent of Stiles' arousal nearly drowns out the sharp tang of his anger. He uses his knee to balance against the wall as Stiles moans again, grinding himself down on Derek and they both temporarily forget where they are.

Derek feels him jump when his free hand comes up to cover Stiles’ pale throat, tightening just enough to restrict his airway without completely choking his breath off. Even though it’s meant to be a punishment and a reminder to be quiet, Derek can smell the surge of hunger that pulses through him. He shudders slightly when Stiles' hips thrust down as he tries to swallow against the pressure in his throat. Derek watches Stiles' eyes dilate further when he feels the sharp touch of claws against his pulse points. He holds still when Stiles’ uncoordinated movements shift into a smoother rocking motion and he tries to ride higher up Derek's leg to brush their cocks together. He knows he’s trying force a reaction from Derek, something other than the distant, almost clinical way Derek stares at him. He knows Stiles doesn’t want him to be detached from this little interlude. Stiles wants him growling and panting and spinning their orgasms out until they’re both raw, lips swollen and shiny from being bitten, gasping out needy moans mixed with guttural curses. Derek wants it too. Just not with the constant echo of violence surrounding them.

So Derek isn’t playing by Stiles’ rules tonight. He holds himself still, pinning Stiles to the wall with steady hands and rigid thigh. He drags Stiles further up, forcing him to balance on his toes and increasing the pressure at his wrists and throat. His nostrils flair at the fresh wave of lust/rage/need/hate that pours from Stiles and he growls softly, his cock pressing tightly against the zipper of his jeans. He’s sickened by the pleasure he manages to find in this. Everything is twisted and wrong and tangled up in his head. His lip curls into a sneer and he spares a moment to hope Stiles reads his self-loathing as aggression and desire.

Derek holds himself well away from Stiles’ increasingly frantic rutting, letting him focus on getting himself off with choked, broken gasps, twisting his bruised wrists in Derek's grasp, and grinding into what has to be already painful pressure against his cock. A grimace and the faint scent of blood from Stiles clenched fists where his nails dug into the tender skin of his palms are the only warning Derek has before the orgasm tears through Stiles’ body. His spine curls forward, forcing his cock even harder into Derek’s thigh and his throat further into Derek’s hand. 

Derek eases the pressure against Stiles’ neck and waits for his body to relax and his breathing to tick down from near-hyperventilation to the deep, slow draws of a stated body. The moment he’s sure he can stand on his own, Derek pulls away as quickly as possible without hurting him. He turns and adjusts his jeans, ignoring his flagging erection. At least in turning away, he can give Stiles the illusion that Derek found satisfaction from their little encounter. 

The quiet of the room, broken only by the soft rustle of Stiles adjusting his clothing, guts Derek and he locks his muscles into tense stillness. He bites his own tongue at the suddenly choking silence behind him, regretting everything that has led them here. The one time Derek had tried to hold Stiles afterwards, to bring him down gently and comfort him, Stiles had pulled away and stormed out, refusing to speak to Derek for two weeks. Derek knows better now. So there's no conversation, no thanks, no snide remarks or crude commentary. No promises or threats or requests for a repeat performance. Just the sharp scent of Stiles’ sweat and come, the oppressive feeling of remorse and the bitter throb of satisfaction sitting heavy in the air. Derek’s head drops forward when Stiles quickly makes his way out and slams the door shut, and he stumbles over to the wall, sliding down to crouch on the floor. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up, but he doesn’t think he can stop either. Having a little bit of Stiles, helping to ease the darkness a little, even if it only hurts Derek in the end, is better than nothing at all, right?


End file.
